The beds of ivy in front of our house are also home to a lot of weeds, much to my annoyance. But one welcome intrusion is a patch of wild blackberries.
I love blackberries, and it’s an affection that goes deeper than taste. Much like watermelon, they remind me of my childhood and of my grandparent’s farm. Wild blackberries grew along the road to their house, and I remember spending many summer days with baskets along the dusty roadside plucking blackberries from the vine. One for the basket, two in my mouth. Then when we got back to the house, my grandmother would make the most delicious blackberry cobbler, made even tastier because I knew I’d contributed.
So even though I plan to weed the ivy beds this afternoon, I’ll not be removing the blackberry vines. Instead, I’ve been bringing in the berries as they ripen, with Camille’s help of course.
There aren’t enough for a cobbler, but after a quick wash, Camille seems to like them just they way they are.